The Fragile
by Lydia-066
Summary: Deep down inside, we'd all known that the Covenant would eventually find Earth: deep down inside, we'd all been guilty of giving in to that treacherous thought. POV of a marine  features the MC  set during end of Halo 2 and beginning of Halo 3.


I remember it as though it were weeks ago, as though the event that lead me to these agonizing seconds passed so long ago that the memory has been playing hide an seek. Ancient history straight from the hologram I learned from in grade school, the teacher strutting rigidly at the front of the white, boxy classroom, pointing stick in her hand... No, never mind, that's irrelevant; what's relevant, is that I'm sitting in a make-shift ditch resting in the thick of battle. The stench of it is overwhelming, but I suppose that's where terms like 'the fog of war' came from.

I feel something warm and wet trickle agonizingly downwards, a sensation both curiously laughable and rather disgusting at the same time. I go cross eyed for a moment and try to locate the steady stream of liquid, wheezing strangely, wondering why this noise has suddenly emerged from nowhere and why my body seems suddenly alien to me. It doesn't connect in my mind that I'm going into shock, that a vicious burn mark stretches from mid-chest to the elbow on my left arm, and that the strange wheezing noise was a horribly mutated laugh.

And then I wonder why I'm so catatonic, where normally I'm restless, which prompts a frown to overtake my lips and cause a blinding amount of pain to shoot through my face. No where else, just my face. I remember then that my nose is broken in two places, the flesh sickeningly askew from its normal position, bone and cartilage poking out in strange places, blood pumping rhythmically downwards. _Oh. _I think, recoiling from the discovery. _I hope I don't sneeze._ It's disgusting, really, how calm I am; even with the smoking alien corpse propped up against my side, causing me to lean onto a dead marine; I find the time to take a humorous and detached approach to the situation.

That's when the true shock of my wounds hit me, as though a five ton Warthog just fell out of the air, which sends me descending into blackness. I smile.

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A crisp sun dawns over Old Mombassa, illuminating the true state of the city and the papers that are billowing around like tumbleweeds. In fact, I see a few of those too, slowly crawling along in a nearly straight line while tattered paper follows close behind them, an entourage to the sleepy giants. _Giants made of wispy savannah grass_, I think dreamily, as though we're here for a picnic... but it's the Sergeant that reminds me we're here for more then just idle daydreaming.

**"Move it, marines! Let's go, go, go!" **He barks, voice slightly distorted by the cigar stuffed in the corner of his mouth, sounding similar to gears grinding glass.

His unusual green eyes are gazing at the squad with a proud fury, if such a look exists... pride because we're UNSC marines, the best of the best; and fury because of our sleepy state. There are eight of us in the squadron, including me and the Sergeant, though he tells us he'd rather be in a squad full of drooling mutts and fluffy poodles. _So much for the best of the best, _I think with silent amusement, imagining a parade square full of flea-ridden dogs running around with wild abandon.

Corporal Aceton moves first, noticing Sergeant Eliot's left hand clutching the standard issue silver pistol in a warning - he'd only shot at us once before, and pointedly missed - the rest of us following suit. Our run is not exactly stealthy, the clanking of our gear softly adding a rhythm to our movements, and our dusty black combat boots stir dirt, rubble and clouds of dust that hang in the air long after we've left.

Everybody knows the drill: stay on the move, be as silent as possible, and focus. The latter, I find, is difficult in urban situations such as these; silence unnerves me, and paranoia lingers around each corner. I clutch my Assault Rifle with a white-knuckled grip, pulling it even closer to my body. I feel anxiety creeping up on me, but I deny it weakly and only stumble for a moment. We move as a single, impenetrable unit, each step falling into place at the exact same time as our team training takes over. No one can be out of line.

An hour passes, then two, and three trickles by without even a whisper of enemy contact, the drab beige and dull grey paint of the abandoned city pass by looking exactly the same at every turn. The Corporal makes a hand signal to us. Thunder rumbles in the horizon and instinctually I check the sky in a hurried motion, realizing that the so-called thunder isn't in the sky - it was the very heart within my chest.

**"Contacts; three o'clock, at least a dozen Covenant contacts. There's only one of them squid faced monsters, the rest are just methane-suckers. Wonder where the rest of their armada is," **CO Aceton whispers hoarsely, crouching nervously and leaning against a large dark splotch of unknown substance and questionable origin.

The rest of us follow suit with his example, swallowing anxiously and adjusting our gear as silently as we could, so as not to betray our position. Reaching behind me, I grabbed the helmet strapped to the top of my pack, slapped it roughly on my stubble covered head and activated the square shaped screen positioned in front of my right eye. It came to life soundlessly, giving me the exact coordinates of our location. They were extremely vague and provided nothing but an estimate of our current longitude and latitude, position we faced, a map of the surrounding city and geography, as well as the standard motion detector that marked the squad's surroundings every few seconds. The radar could turn the tide of a battle in mere seconds; I dare to look at it out of fear rather then habit. I focus on the light blue screen, devouring the data with unease, before switching the screen to the infamous oval and studying the blips carefully. Seven yellow dots, and twelve crimson ones just around the corner... my heart rate quickens again.

A drop of sweat siphons slowly down my face. I've never been in combat before, though I've seen the images and the videos and heard the terrified screams of men and women either roaring in pain or foul joy, echoing rounds of live gunfire raging in the background. It's chilling, really; people are never the same after they've been in the thick of combat.

_This is your chance,_ I think nervously, _this is your chance to give back some of the hurt they've caused you._ Somehow I treat this situation as though it's the apocalypse - gazing around euphorically at the surroundings with slow precision, eyeing them with sad apprehension, head hanging. My thoughts wander like leashless dogs; I start wishing my father kept that ancient relic of a shotgun. Even more then that, I wish he was here.

**"It's not the end of the world, Mendez." **I'm startled by the whisper and my body goes rigid; out of the corner of my eye, I see Private Laker grinning devilishly at me. I give him a dirty look. I suppose he thinks he's some sort of prophet, spewing laments about the battlefield and trying to prove his heroics, while somehow remaining a complete coward. Figures.

**"You're one to talk. Last I heard you froze up and booked it,"** My voice is lighter but full of burning spite, the only contrast to the men's dramatically manly voices. I'm female in case you decided not to notice. But out here in the field we're all one and the same, all equal despite our differences.

**"I guess you've got nothing better to do then listen to green thumb gossip."**

**"Well, well... welcome to the army, soldier."**

By the time our conversation comes to a close I'm smirking with dislike rather then mischief, but a sharp glance from the Sergeant's menacing eyes ends our testy banter. Laker is testing me and we both know it; probing for weakness, for any motion betraying fear. Yet all I can muster up is a strange sentiment of satirical amusement.

**"Alright soldiers, we're going hot in five; don't shoot - shut UP Laker!-" **Eliot silences the growing protest he can sense lurking in Laker split seconds before the private opens his mouth and begins to utter the beginning of a syllable,** "just circle them. Use deadly force if necessary if they resist. This is it boys, our moment of glory. Lock and load - look sharp."** Despite the quiet tone he's using to conceal our presence, the voice is still razor-edged and hardened by years of dealing with the Covenant.

If you look close enough you can almost see the reflections of those battles; landscapes ranging from Earth to Harvest to Reach. If you look even further, you find the steely resolve born of pain, loss and a promise made - vengeance.

I square my jaw, check my gun, and harden my heart.

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Stealthy shadows move amidst the darkness created by a bland slab of concrete, providing a momentary shelter and a split-second of preparation before Corporal Aceton bursts from cover and strafes the group of aliens.

In less then a minute we've surrounded a small squad of enemy soldiers, who are bristling with undisguised hatred mixed with surprise. Grunts bark and whimper nervously and the few that retain their pistols wave them around wildly, knobbly fingers resting over the trigger but too controlled by their fear to fight back. The single Elite, clad in magnificent gold armor, is evidently wounded; a strange substance looking almost like gauze is wrapped around his thigh, metallic blue blood leaking through. He's gazing at us with an unreadable expression, holding a long-fingered hand up in silent signal to his underlings and allowing a glaring marine to police his weapons. Before long they're all defenceless.

I'm holding my rifle steady and taking aim at his angular head, finger resting delicately over the trigger. The creature seems to realize how easily his life is resting in my hands - his gaze is locked on my itchy trigger finger, and his mandibles click in faint recognition, as if saying '_Oh, I get it. You think you're turning the tide., _but his stance says otherwise.

**"Can you speak ENGLISH?"** Sergeant Eliot is the first to break the uneasy silence with a much exaggerated voice, doing his best to hide his contempt for the scaly creatures in front of him. Creatures' part of an armada that glassed whole worlds, whole colonies... I take a second to glance at the Elite and watch his reaction carefully. There's a faint glimmer of recognition.

**"Indeed,"** He replies in a rolling voice so deep it unnerves me enough to shiver violently.

The Sarge just chomps his cigar in a contemplative way. Several marines shift footing anxiously.

**"Lower the gun, Mendez."** He says without looking at me, and I do as I'm told, **"Where are your troops?" **He's still speaking in a very meticulous manner.

This question seems to elicit a demented amusement from the alien, who makes an odd noise similar to chuckling or snickering. Suddenly I take back my earlier statement: no one is equal on the battlefield. No body finds the time to think of a potential fatal situation as charmingly amusing, except this squid-face. The only ones who die laughing are the Covenant, who fight with cowardice behind their bulbous, comical war ships, glassing planets without even deploying troops. Not exactly skilled and ugly as sin, the Covenant were a race of aliens that had banded together against humanity, declaring us "infidels" in the face of their superior logic and demanding gods. What they lacked, however, was the ability to play dirty and steer away from standard procedure. I had seen a Covenant alien fight using its fists rather than pick up a discarded human rifle, whereas we were adapting their technology into our own.

**"Why, the Ark of course."** Now it was his turn to sound like we were all three year olds, **"To cleanse this planet overflowing with your blasphemies and sins. To right wrongs created by the murderous fingers of heresy - to even ask such a thing is absurd, no... It's beyond absur-"**

An burst of live rounds booms through the interconnecting alleyways and drab city walls, fading over time - I wonder who fired out of turn, until I realize that the smoking gun muzzle is mine and the clanking gun shells came from my rifle. _Idiot._ I raise my gaze from the ground till I'm looking directly at the Sergeant. The rounds bounce harmlessly against concrete.

**"...sorry, sir."** I struggle to get the words out, my throat is so dry; the thunder has started in my chest again.

**"Don't let it happen again, Private. Now tell me, Mr. Golden armor - where exactly **_**is**_** this 'ark'?"**

**"To the west, heathen."** His tone is not mockingly friendly anymore. It is full of unmistakable hatred.

The Grunts at his back shudder and continue to twitch around nervously, chittering to themselves. I wonder vaguely if they know what's going on and if they're wondering why the Elite doesn't leap forth and strangle every human with his bare hands. Stupid simian creatures.

But then something catches my eye: the Sergeant is no longer standing with strangely relaxed posture. He makes and then breaks eye contact with all seven of us, nodding his head slightly as though in slow motion while raising his rifle. It feels like I'm floating outside my own body, and I watch as I too, raise my gun and take aim at the nervous creatures. Staccato fire of automatic weapons once more boom down the narrow alleyways of the city, and the sickening thump of bodies falling to the ground follows the dying sound waves. Neon colored blood sprays in a fountain of gore right before my eyes, pooling outwards and lapping at our dusty black boots. I take a step back. The Sergeant steps forwards, lifts his leg, and cranks his boot down on the slain Elite's head with deadly force. The result is immediate; its skull cracks with a chilling snap, more blood oozing from the grotesque jaws, parted mockingly. He takes another moment to spit on the corpse before reloading his gun with a stoic precision, shouldering it and looking towards the horizon.

Storm clouds gather like an omen.

**"This is it boys. Lock and load - and look sharp." **His voice sounds strangely detached.

We break into a light jog and leave the corpses behind us, metallic fluid still bubbling out of bullet wounds and bodies slowly ebb of their warmth.

There are no drums in my chest; only a steely resolve born of pain, loss and a promise made - vengeance. I square my jaw, reload my gun, and harden my heart.

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Our squad never discovered the reason why storm clouds had gathered menacingly on the horizon, or why a strange blue glow erupted so suddenly all of us recoiled violently. In the split second it had appeared it nearly blinded us all, lingering purple blotches staining our retinas and hindering our gazes. Private Mercer had to have flash-cloned eyes replacing his old ones if he ever wanted to continue active duty in the UNSC.

A few hours away from the pile of dead Covenant bodies we had left, a patrol of drop ships - Pelicans - had spotted us while combing the city for survivors. There was no relief on our faces or in our hearts when we were rescued, as my squad was apparently one of the last surviving companies within the labyrinth-like Old Mombassa, and body counts were rising by the hour. I had willingly hoped that the other marines of the a-z companies were, in fact, alive and waiting for dust off; that it was only the confusing way the city was built preventing the search and rescue birds from finding them. This fight was utterly hopeless.

Deep down inside, we'd all known that the Covenant would eventually find Earth; deep down inside, we'd all been guilty of giving in to that treacherous thought, if only once or twice. I felt miserable. The mood was infectious, and pretty soon we all felt like teenagers with pent up angst.

After sitting for several more hours in the cramped Pelican troop bay, the co-pilot leaned back and informed us that we had finally reached the temporary and unofficial HQ. Upon hearing those familiar letters - HQ - the squad perks up and eagerly wait for the bird to land. HQ meant hot showers, warm meals, a time to relax, talk with fellow marines and learn the true extent of the UNSC's losses. We descended with a sudden lurch that made my stomach skip rope and then settle as the vehicle comes to a jarring halt on onyx mesh. The back door opened, and I can hear the hydraulics working with a loud hiss and a pop, gliding the ramp down with ease.

The makeshift base is a flurry of activity, even from where I stand with my squad on designation landing pad one. Soldiers in camoflauge and marine-green carry boxes of fuel, ammunition, rations and weapons across the platform or into doors that are infront or behind us. I notice the heat, and glancing up, it's apparent that HQ is located somewhere tropic - the vegetation looks exotic but slightly generic, and insects create a steady background hymn. Stairs lead to a lower platform constructed of concrete that looks like the beginning of a two-lane street; Warthogs and one Scorpion tank are parked in a square formation in front of a large garage door. I feel awed by the station, and stared around in wonder for a few more minutes until a vioce intruded on my musings.

**"All personal on deck are requested to clear designation landing pad two, I repeat..."** The COM system crackled and faded out.

I wondered if the Pelican that was going to land was full of a few missing companies from Old Mombassa; I certainly hoped so, as Earth needed all the force she could get. Few marines looked up as the rotating engines of the plane swivelled downwards and blasted the deck with exhaust, which then ballooned upwards into the sky above the chasm.

I, however, was extremely curious - and the moment that figure stepped out of the troop bay within the bird, I knew instantly we were saved. His faded olive armor was a legend within the ranks of the UNSC marines, and he remained the faceless hero of the corps with his stoic demeanour and ability to get missions done without dithering or hesitating. Now, and only now, men and women stopped to eye the armor-clad newcomer with curiosity and awe: nobody in the military had a track record like this man. Petty Officer Master Chief John-117, known generally as Master Chief, was a member of the SPARTAN-II program and had lived through more then a dozen Covenant campaigns, successfully boarding not one but several of their warships with strange ease. He passed by the railing which I was casually leaning against, and I saluted instantaneously.

**"Sir!" **I speak it loudly.

**"At ease, Private."** His voice is hoarse with years of warfare, gravely and dramatic.

I'm not sure where his gaze lies, or how he knows my rank, either - Spartans are just like that, or so I've heard. They just _know._ As though all their years of battle has yielded extraordinary powers of perception. I'm not sure exactly, what they are, but what I do know is that they make one helluva soldier in tight spots and are brilliant battle-field tacticians.

For some reason, his voice reminds me of my father - and I smile. Strapped to his back is a 12-gauge shotgun, sleek and deadly, the matte black paint interrupted by curious spots of silvery blue substance, which makes my hopeful grin wider. I'm still smiling, but the expression feels inappropriate, and vaguely familiar. As soon as this thought crosses my mind, the line begins to blur and darkness consumes my head, consuming everything.


End file.
